


By Yourself but Not Alone

by romanticalgirl



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:49:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a little bit, eh eh</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Yourself but Not Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://hackthis.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://hackthis.livejournal.com/)**hackthis** for the Generation Kill Minor Characters Ficathon. She requested: Q Tip/Christenson. Rapping and rolling.
> 
> Originally posted 8-27-09

Sitting in the back of the LT’s Humvee is the shit. They’ve got mother-fucking leg room, which no other motherfuckers can claim, and it’s not like they have Gunny and the LT sitting in their laps all goddamned day. They’re free and easy, loose and rapping to their own rhythm. As far as commanders go, Fick’s the sweetest ride they’ve ever had, trusting them to do their job without coming down like a shit-smoking, dick-smacking wannabe hardass like Captain America or shit like that. They have their time to ride and watch their sectors and Stafford can school Christeson on the ways of the Devil Dog, get him up to speed on all that shit.

Of course, the war is totally different shit for them. Everyone else is up in it, riding into it head on, and they see the back ass of the war, watching the fuckers behind them as whatever they bring down rains on top of their heads. In a lot of ways it’s fucked, because they both want to get some, but by the same token, they’re seeing shit ain’t nobody else viewing. Even Lilley’s camera don’t see the shit they do, doesn’t fucking see the war from their angle. They see the motherfucking bodies after they’ve been rolled on by three Humvees, they hear the LT off comms cussing under his breath and they hear Gunny acting like a fucking wife, telling Fick to not take the shit so personally.

Christeson’s a fucking cherry, but he learns quick. He takes heed when Q-tip talks, which is something more than Stafford can say for the rest of the Recon fucknuts. He’s a joke and Chaffin’s personal whipping boy, but the way he sees it, he’s about the only one who tells the truth. Ain’t no thing in what they’re doing. They do their jobs and, if they’re lucky, they go home. Ain’t none of ‘em except Gunny and Poke got shit worth fighting for, so they’re just all in it for the chance to blow some Haji’s head off and jack somebody’s shit up.

He remembers being like Christeson. Ripe as a fucking peach and wanting that first kill. Learning as he went along and getting his shit handed to him on a regular basis. His first Recon was with Colbert, and that shit schooled his ass right the first time. He’s fucking thorough with his recon, and Colbert’s the reason he’s on the LT’s team. In Recon you’re good or your dead, and Q-tip’s got no desire to be dead. If he did, he’d still be on the streets of L.A. or jacking around with motherfuckers serving 15 to life in San Quentin.

Shit keeps going from bad to worse though, and he figures these fuck-ups have to be planned, because there’s no way this much could happen by fucking accident. But in Bryan’s victor, Doc just keeps getting pissier and pissier, and Baptista hasn’t spoken fucking English all goddamned week, and Gunny’s gone quiet and soft and the LT ain’t speaking to anyone except to sound like someone’s ground his soul like a fucking cigarette under the heel of a boot. It gets worse until it feels like a fucking powder keg and something’s going to light the fuse until it all blows the fuck up in their faces.

“LT?”

Fick looks up from his map, his brow furrowed beneath his Kevlar. Q-tip knows that shit rolls downhill, and ain’t no one lower than a couple of corporals and pfcs, but it’s also clear that the LT’s gonna shove them the fuck out of the way and let it wash over him, fucking suffocate him. “Yes, Corporal?”

“We’re on 25 percent watch, sir.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“So, I’m awake, yo.” He points to himself and smiles. “Get some sleep, sir.”

“Why don’t you, Corporal.”

“I would, but Christeson snores like a motherfucker, sir. I mean, that shit ain’t Recon. You put him out in the fucking Haji mountains and they’d find us from the noise. So I ain’t sleepin’, you know?”

“Thank you, but…”

“Sir.” Stafford straightens and looks Nate dead in the eye. “We’re trusting you to keep our asses covered, sir. Part of what makes us work is that we’re a team. We’re the team of the platoon, and we’re the team of each victor. Now I know you’re TL and shit for us, but if you don’t sleep soon, you’re gonna get us dead. And my momma ain’t gon’ like that.”

“And your…momma…” The LT purses his lips, and Q-tip knows he’s trying not to laugh. He can tell by the crinkles that line Fick’s eyes.

“She’s one bad bitch, sir. She’ll fuck your ass up.”

“So, for the sake of-”

“All of us, sir.” Q-tip informs him. “Because you get us dead, you gotta tell my momma, and then Gunny’s gonna have to tell _your_ momma why my momma killed you. And then poor Gunny’s gonna have to tell Person’s momma why her little fucked up, retard, ADD, sister-raping dipshit ain’t coming home, and then Gunny’s wife is gonna have to kill Person’s momma for putting the moves on her man.”

“My. You…wow.” Fick manages to keep a straight face, but it’s a near fucking thing.

“Why you wanna do Gunny like that, sir?”

“I don’t.” Fick clears his throat and stands up, setting his map on his seat. “Thank you.”

“It’s what they pay me for, sir.” He quirks his mouth in a smirk, the closest thing he gets to a smile. “Don’t want to be making these big-ass bucks for nothing.”

He watches the LT head to his grave and then takes up the seat he vacated. The world looks different from the front seat, less narrow without canvas walls on either side. He can see Pappy’s team and Poke’s team and the Iceman’s team, quiet as the dead, the only movement from the one restless man holding his weapon, charged with protecting his brothers. Stafford’s eyes burn with sand and his head aches with exhaustion. His weapon weighs more than the fucking Humvee and the night seems like it’s never going to end.

Fick won’t be the only one standing on the bottom of that hill. Maybe he doesn’t know it, but they all do. They’re all his men. They ain’t goin’ nowhere.  



End file.
